


You Are A Call To Motion

by TheSouthernFalconer



Category: The Arcana (Visual Novel)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Drinking, F/M, First Meetings, Flashbacks, Fluff and Angst, Implied/Referenced Prison Violence, Implied/Referenced Torture, It's all in the past though, Meet-Cute, Mentioned imprisonment, Pre-Canon, Pre-Relationship, Strangers to Lovers, references to trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-01
Updated: 2020-08-01
Packaged: 2021-03-06 05:14:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,755
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25647874
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheSouthernFalconer/pseuds/TheSouthernFalconer
Summary: Two troubled strangers meet at an underground travelling pub. Uncomfortable truths and preconceived notions are easier confronted over a bottle of ferociously strong liquor.
Relationships: Nadia (The Arcana)/Original Male Character(s)
Kudos: 2





	You Are A Call To Motion

The Red Market swirled around Zurkhi. He frequented these winding corridors beneath the abandoned Coliseum- it was a good hideout, and sometimes he ran into his old colleagues. Most of them bore him no ill will- and the ones that did, well, he could handle. A thrum of excitement always came alive in him when he paced through the market, making conversation with the piercers and the clandestine sorcerers and the memory dealers and the bootleggers and smugglers. It reminded him of the blood red of Firenti wildroses growing between the cracked pavements of that old land. Life seeping through the torment of tyranny. Has he had too much to drink? Zurkhi leaned back on his rickety chair, nursing his bottle. He had found himself in a seedy travelling pub in the Market. The brewer was gifted- the brew burned its way down his throat- liquid fire, nothing less. Flamespirit had long been outlawed in these parts after the old Count’s death, the brewer told him. It was the only good thing that preening bastard had kept alive in this city- good liquor and revelry, and the insufferable snob of a Consul who took up right after him (the Countess was ill, they say- either that or she couldn’t care less- wouldn’t put it past her), had killed that fun too. “These geezers don’t even have a Masquerade to live for anymore,” the brewer grumbled. “A Masquerade won’t fix anything,” Zurkhi chided. The brewer had shrugged, “When ya think of yourself as beggars, brother, you tend to forget that you could choose.” Zurkhi had smiled, clinking his bottle against the brewer’s “Drink to that.”

Today, however, he was seething. He had been to Vesuvia two years ago, when the plague had begun to set in, before the city was locked into quarantine. The canals bled, and the citizens swarmed the harried doctor’s clinic at South End- they say he killed the Count, that beautiful, intelligent redhead. It was hard to believe, but good if he did, the vainglorious prick deserved to die. There wasn’t a thing he did except for puttering around in his shiny clothes, handing out measly scraps in exchange for empty adulation. A job at Venterre had called him away from Vesuvia then- it was to be one of his final assignments. He could not return to the city after the quarantine, but what he had seen then had shaken him to the core. Horde after horde of the ill, the beetles swarming beyond his grasp, and even now- he could see the island in the horizon, quivering with ghosts. He’d felt like a coward- all of this was far beyond him, far beyond anything he could do. What have I been doing all my life, he’d wondered, when I could have fixed something more substantial?

The people, much like the wildflowers, had lived on, Zurkhi found. With every visit, life breathes itself back into this city- the leech stalls were up and running, the market was bustling, and yet, the place heaved under neglect and disrepair. Neither the Consul nor the Countess were about as much- he was unsurprised- but how long could this go on? How do these people wake up every single day and not anguish at how they deserve better, at how they have been condemned to this- ridiculous beggary, one sovereign after another, one reign after another? Zurkhi tossed back another shot of Flamespirit. He was the only customer here for now, and the brewer was busying himself in a conversation with the animal merchant next door. A scuttle across his wrist announced a reminder that he _did_ indeed, have company. “I know, I know, Fenne,” his scorpion had made her way out of his pocket. She snapped her pincers reproachfully at him and climbed up to the table, tapping against the bottle. “You _are_ the best drinking partner I could ask for, darling” he said indulgently. Suddenly, she scuttled on to his shoulders, straightening her sting and making a racket. Zurkhi frowned, and turned around. The brewer did too, from his seat on the sand.

“Am I unwelcome?” Her voice was soft, unsure, even with its hint of steel. She stood tall and straight, her face veiled behind a jeweled hood. He could only make out her eyes- tyrian, and tired, the dark circles beneath them revealing many days of insomnia. She was laughably out of place in her surroundings- an emerald glittered at her throat, and her clothes were obviously expensively made- delicate lavender lace and fine green silk. He was shocked that nobody had tried to rob her- perhaps it is the long handle of a fine sword shining gracefully at her waist, or perhaps it was her countenance- she exuded a kind of power and presence that Zurkhi found- suspicious, but surprisingly, not revolting. “I shall take my leave then,” she said quickly, a hint of embarrassment creeping through her voice. Before she turned around, Zurkhi managed to find his tongue. There was no way he was going to deprive the brewer of such a clearly lucrative customer. “No, we’re only unused to strangers like you in these parts.” He said quickly. The brewer chimed in deferentially, “Yes, please, take a seat.”

“Oh,” she said simply, sounding surprised. “Very well, then.” To Zurkhi’s astonishment, the woman promptly moved forward to take a seat in front of him. Golden bangles clinked at her wrist as she shifted, and he caught a light whiff of jasmines. Well, he’d suspected that she was some sort of aristocrat looking for a late night adventure, perhaps even a wealthy traveler come to mine the city’s secrets. Why would she take a seat before him, scorpion perched on his shoulder, all the jagged scars across his face? There _was_ a time when men and women who dressed and spoke like her showed far more than a fleeting disgust in him- but that time was long gone, with the face he used to have, and with the resentment he then came to have. He hadn’t ever bothered to cloak himself unless he needed a disguise- in this part of the city he needed none. The woman seemed to sense his conflict, and her eyes fluttered. “Is it not- alright that I sit-“ Zurkhi shook his head quickly. “No, no, it’s perfectly fine.” He smiled at her, and her veil shifted a little to indicate that she had smiled too.

“Flamespirit, for the lady?” the brewer called out, with a conspicuous wink at Zurkhi.

She startled, for a bit, and Zurkhi pressed his lips together to suppress a laugh. Not a traveler, then, if she was stunned at it’s availability. But her discomfort was only barely perceptible. Only a widening of her eyes before she said “Yes, please,” she said smoothly. She placed her hands elegantly on the dirty table. “The creature on your shoulder is most delightful.” She said, gesturing at Fenne with a long, manicured finger. “She has an unusual sort of charm.” Fenne snipped her pincers, backing off. Zurkhi wondered if the she expected him to oblige, to offer the scorpion up as amusement- judging by her finery, she was possibly used to that sort of behavior. But judging by the sheer fond curiosity in her eyes, she was probably not expecting- or at the very least, demanding, anything. All the same, Zurkhi leaned back, crossing his legs. “She appreciates the compliment, but she is wary around strangers.” She laughed, a high, musical sound- a strand of purple hair fell loose from her scarf- and she promptly swept it away. “I wouldn’t dream of troubling her, of course not.” The brewer returned with a fresh bottle of Flamespirit. When she dropped an impossible amount of gold on the table, double or even triple the price of the bottle, he uncorked it and set it before her with an added flourish- “Cheers to you, miss!”

Zurkhi felt a little embarrassed. He was so distracted by this intriguing stranger that he had not even offered her a sip from his bottle. All the better, though, he decided. The flickers at the rim of a fresh bottle where the spirit spilt over was half the experience of Flamespirit. The stranger ran a finger around the bottle’s mouth, and lifted it to her lips behind her veil. The swig she took was practiced- he sensed no discomfort. “This isnt your first time drinking Flamespirit.” He said, curious. “No,” she said. “I was here far before the drink was outlawed- I _am_ more acquainted with wine, however- a bottle does no harm.” Her Vesuvian was flawless, better than his own and polished- but he could sense the over-correctness of it, the slightest trace of a leftover accent. “But you weren’t born here?” he mused, wondering if she would answer. A shake of her head. “Prakra-“ she said wistfully. She lifted the bottle to her lips again, and Zurkhi drank with her. “It has been long since I have been home.”

 _Prakra_. She might be a merchant, then, a jeweler from the sprawling Empire who expanded her fortune in this bustling, worse-for-wear town. A falling out with a wealthy family, perhaps. “I could say the same, myself.” He tilted his head. “Well, Firent is hardly home for me- the place I was born- haven’t returned there since I left.” Fenne crept down his arm laying, her pincers against his wrist. Firent was a story he’d told often- almost with a vengeance in those initial days- they _needed_ to know. Everyone needed to know. But his scars always stung with dull phantom pains when he recounted it, and Fenne knew her pressure was soothing. It was a motion she’d practiced from the beginning. The stranger regarded him, her eyebrows raised delicately. “It was a desertion, then.” She said wryly. Zurkhi chuckled. “I’m not surprised that you guessed right. With this face? What else could it have been?”

_Much more, and yet only that. The Papess and the Priestlords with their spiked handcuffs, the cage, small enough that it made him crawl like an animal- the heeled boots on his back- her face inches from his, her scarlet eyes branding into him- “Only the Gods can save you. Only Them. Call for them- filthy infidel, heretic. Call for them. Pray” A desertion, a desperate tussle with the locks, a bizarre turn of fate, and a slipping away into the night. What else could it have been?_

“No,” she said, thoughtful. She took another gulp of Flamespirit. “Not just the face- although that _is_ part of it-“ she confessed, and then trailed off, frowning. “Is that where you acquired the scorpion?” she asked, looking down at Fenne with gentle eyes. He shook his head, scoffing. “ _Acquired_? No, I _met_ Fenne- when I was in prison in Venterre.” Zurkhi watched her, waited for her to process it. She merely sniffed, unsurprised, and blinked a few times. “She must have been a good companion.” Her voice was soft, soft as the light scent of her perfume. “The best,” Zurkhi said sincerely, letting Fenne nestle into his palm. “She was the kindest companion I could have asked for- the prisons of Venterre were cruel- I didn’t think I could escape them.” Maybe the drink was getting to him, or maybe Fenne- like himself- deserved to hear it. Everyone deserved to know. The stranger raised her eyebrows- “I suppose the running joke about Venterre’s worst sentence being cheap wine and wilted flowers- does not hold.” Zurkhi barked out a laugh at that. “No, not at all. The lovelier the city- the more rot in the prisons-“

_No, more than just rot. Chains digging into his ribs. Poisons, to keep them in agony, but compliant. And then the whips, when they could not struggle- One, Two, Three. Thief, thief, thief. The days before his escape when he whispered to the scorpion at the corner of his cell. “My name is Zurkhi, and I’ll survive. It hurts. But I’ll survive. My name is Zurkhi.”_

He took a hasty gulp of his drink. He could feel his face flush as it raced through his veins. “You sound like you frequent them.” She said crisply. “Forgery, theft, banditry.” He ticked them off, finger by scarred finger. “Attempted murder- but that was a framing. Dissention, conmanship, and of course- heresy, high treason, for deserting back at home.” He met her gaze evenly. She did not look afraid- searching, assessing, but unafraid. “My, my.” Was that a smile he could hear in her voice? “Does it reward handsomely, a life of crime?” She asked. Zurkhi clicked his tongue. Did she not see the state of his clothes, or was she only asking it to punish him? “We didn’t commit crime to reward ourselves, my companions and I.” She said nothing, only took a sip of the brew, waiting for him to continue. “We only robbed and forged those who hoarded wealth, we redistributed our earnings among the people whose wealth it really was.” She drummed her fingers against her bottle. Tyrian eyes bore into his turquoise ones, as though mining him for the truth. “And would you suggest that the ends justify the means?” She asked slowly. Zurkhi chuckled, shaking his head. “Justice and injustice do not live and die by the word of law.” “No,” she said smoothly. “Do you, however, and your companions, think they live and die by your hands?” He shifted in his chair, falling silent.

_“Who do you think you are?” The spear against his throat. “What’d you think you could change?” The words spat at him in biting Nopali. “You think you’re so smart, but nobody wants you here. Nobody wants you. We were all fine until you came along. Who do you think you are?” The dissension crushed neatly under the Council’s feet, and then the prison, and then the escape. And then another prison, another, another, till he feels the target on his back like a brand. “Let me bleed it out,” he’d told the pirate he met in Nevivon when she offered him a tattoo. “Let me feel the weight of it, and bleed it out.”_

_“Ack,” her voice like the sand, “You sound just like another slippery boy I know.”_

He hung his head, feeling the room spin a little. Was this his third bottle for the night? Then he straightened. “No, that’s not what I think.” He told the stranger. “That kind of hubris is the business of sovereigns. Like the fools who ran this city to the ground.” The woman laughed- he wondered if he imagined that the sound was frayed around the edges. Did she have some form of loyalty to the Palace? Well, if she does, he has to let her hear all of it. “Forgive me,” she said, still chuckling, “Long as I have lived in Vesuvia, I have never heard the former Count preoccupy himself with justice- or the lack of it.” She took a long, deep gulp of the Flamespirit. “His preoccupations were- himself, his hounds, his revels, his hunts, and his ill-trained, exotic pets. In that order.” Bitterness twisted through her words. Zurkhi inclined his head. “So I have heard.” _That_ was common knowledge in every corner of the city. It was almost as though the dead man had _intended_ that to be his legacy. It would have made him laugh, had it not been so disgustingly infuriating. “Have you met them, the Count and Countess?” He asked her. She must have, judging by her jewels and finery- both of them were known for their propensity to entertain the likes of her. She waved a hand. “Several times in passing,” she said. “The Count made himself-“ he smiled at the grimace in her tone- “far too _known_ for anyone’s liking. And the Countess-“ her words mellowed- “she made herself far too scarce.” Zurkhi ran his hand across the rim of his bottle thoughtfully. “I’ve heard she was a woman of more sense-“ he said. “But well, what difference did her accomplishments make? She bowed out soon enough, but-“ he rolled his eyes. “She was high-born, wasn’t she?” The stranger nodded. Zurkhi shook his head ruefully. “Just goes to show how little Royals know about perseverance, even the ones with half-decent intentions.”

“And I suppose a thief would know all about it- perseverance, that is?” Sharp, quicksilver. Something had ruffled her. Zurkhi wondered what nerve he’d touched as he drank more. “I know _more_ , to be sure, but well- I haven’t persevered at being a thief, either.” She tilted her head, the flash in her eyes replaced with inquiry. So curious, and yet he did not even know her name. Well, she hadn’t volunteered, and neither will he. “To answer your question earlier, I only think the _means_ of my work were only inadequate for my ends- justified, a smaller crime for a larger one, but inadequate.”

_And not worth the price? Coward. Coward. The burning brands, the scent of blood, the endless chase after a heist. Has he gone soft?_

“I see.” She sounded calmer now, satisfied. The momentary tension between them had completely fizzled out. “So we agree that there are better ways to serve the people than methods that land oneself in Venterran prisons.” He sighed then, letting the defences fall, and nodded. “There _has_ to be.” He was drunk, now, he could tell. The desperation was bleeding into his voice. He knew it showed on his face. “There has to be, don’t you think? I-“ His hands were trembling as he ran them across his face, across his scars. Futile. It felt so futile. “I’ve been here, in Vesuvia, during the plague, before they quarantined everything. It was- there’s so _much_ to change, and not _one_ of them holed up in that damned Palace dared to change it before it was far too late.” He gritted his teeth, and dug the heels of his palms into his eyes. “I left Firent because I had no faith in their Gods and Goddesses. The only thing that _works_ \- that _should_ work in this world is the will of the people. There _has_ to be a way to do more. Nothing else makes any sense to me.”

_Ropes, this time. His mother’s face- “Why are you so angry?” Her voice like broken glass. “Why can’t you live with what we have?”_

A shiver ran through his body, and it was only then that he realized that she had reached out to place her palm on his shoulder. It was a gentle pressure, and there was no intent, no insistence. Inexplicably, he could not bring himself to meet her eyes. Her bangles nuzzled his neck. Was he holding his breath? “And what would you dare for the will of the people?” She whispered. Her voice trembled. He breathed out his answer, the one that does not change. “Anything.” Then he met her gaze- steady, calming, clear. She drew her hand back slowly. Fenne shifted from his wrist to inch closer to her across the table. “You have a very brave heart.” She cradled her chin in her palm, her eyes sparkling and sincere. “I- I agree with you.” She went on. “The will of the people- I see.” She sat up a little straighter. “I had been wandering this night- in search of a magician- and in search of a friend, perhaps, in search of clarity. Now look, the dawn is breaking.” As though summoned by her voice, an early ray of sun fell on the table between them. Fenne stretched, basking in it. “Did you find your magician?” He asked, trying to keep his words from slurring.

She nodded. “I did, elsewhere, as I had hoped. To find a friend, and clarity, that was delightfully surprising.” Zurkhi smiled- he hoped he did not _look_ too intoxicated- although that was probably asking too much. “And would you seek him again, this friend?” he asked, leaning towards her.

“If only he wishes to find me.”

“My name is Zurkhi, and I would like nothing more.”

She held his gaze. “Then there is nothing to stop him from doing so.” She reached into the folds of her scarf, and retrieved a scrap of silk, pushing it across the table. Through the blur of his drunken gaze, Zurkhi could see the Palace seal. He frowned, trying to make sense of it. Was she a courtier? She seemed too wealthy to be a servant. An ambassador perhaps? She rose from her seat. “I am wanted in my employ.” She said, “It is nearly daytime. I hope I shall see you soon, Zurkhi.” His name curved pleasantly in her voice. She swayed a little as she walked past him- the Flamespirit had affected her more than she had let on, it seemed.

Zurkhi downed the last of his bottle in one long swig, and staggered after her, following the trill of her anklets, before she could disappear from his sight. “Whom should I ask for, at the Palace?” He asked, before he could consider what he felt about Palaces and ambassadors and courtiers. He clutched the scrap of silk desperately- in a way that would embarrass him when he sobered down. The woman turned to face him, and drew in a deep breath. Then she unclasped her veil, and let the hood slip off her head. More emeralds, clinking at her ears, catching the light. Against the sunrise, her long, long purple hair rippled down her back, framing her face and fluttering in the breeze. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes hazy, her perfect lips parted in surprise. For a moment, Zurkhi wondered if he were dreaming.

He did not hear the yelp of recognition from the brewer, the sudden collective stir of shock and surprise in the streets, only stared at her as she stood there, proud and free and exhausted, only strained to catch her name as it fell from her lips.

_“What a dangerous thing it is, the wrong kind of passion.” The Priests’ had sneered as they unlatched his cage for the trial. What trial? It was straight to the noose for a heretic._

_“Only if it did not make one feel so alive.” Who had said that? A doctor, years later. His hands deftly patching up Zurkhi’s face, his eyes so sad and kind that it made him cry like a broken thing. “You’ll live, but you won’t be the same.”_

“For Nadia.” She said. “You may ask for Nadia.”

**Author's Note:**

> Quit jumping to conclusions, Zurkhi. But I guess it's not for nothing that you have Judgement's patronage.
> 
> Disclaimer: Everything belongs to Nix Hydra. Thank you Nix Hydra.
> 
> Title taken from "Movement" by Hozier


End file.
